


i hear your heart beat to the beat of the drums

by theagonyofblank



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, F/F, I Tried
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 05:13:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theagonyofblank/pseuds/theagonyofblank
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's kind of different from what I expected. Hogwarts, I mean." </p><p>In which everyone attends Hogwarts and Cora has this thing for a certain strawberry blonde.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i hear your heart beat to the beat of the drums

**Author's Note:**

> This fic experiments with non-linear narrative, which I hope won't make it difficult to follow along.
> 
> Title is from Ke$ha's "Die Young" - I'm not sorry at all! ;)

“This—” Cora pauses, breathing in deeply and trying to steady herself. The air is thick with heat and the stone is cold against her back and if she closes her eyes, she can feel the blood rush to her head, the loud thumping of her heart against her ribcage. She shifts down even though she knows the movement will leave scratches, trying to get friction where she needs it – but fingers dig into her hips, firmly barring any further movement. She groans in frustration, and when she speaks, she’s irritated with the way her voice pitches into a whine. “This isn’t fair.”

“Not fair?”

“ _Lydia._ ”

“Cora,” Lydia mimics, pulling away with a smirk. She looks up at Cora through long lashes, pressing a kiss to the inside of her bare thigh. “I thought you _liked_ it when I expressed my gratitude.”

“Express it faster.” It probably means something that the words that would normally be an order with anyone else only sound impatient and pleading with Lydia. Cora’s not exactly pleased about that, but she’s not exactly pleased about the current state she’s in, either. “I don’t like being teased.”

“And I don’t like being rushed,” Lydia counters, pushing Cora’s hips back down as they buck up once more. She licks a trail up Cora’s belly, pressing a kiss to the underside of each breast before trailing downwards again.

“ _Lydia._ ”

Lydia hums, then, and Cora feels the other girl’s lips quirk into a smile against her hip.

For a moment, Cora wonders if she has to wait much longer: Lydia likes to drag their encounters out, likes to make Cora wait, to make Cora plead. But Lydia must be feeling agreeable tonight, or maybe she just has a lot of homework, because suddenly there are fingers sliding in and out and in again – too fast to be pleasant at first, but then Lydia slows her pace and—

“ _Oh, sweet Merlin._ ”

 

 

*

Cora’s never put much stock into rules and regulations.

Anyone with half a brain knows that they’re just there to be bent.

So maybe it’s no surprise that on a particularly dreadful, rainy day in October of her third year, she decides to forego her second period Care of Magical Creatures in favour of exploring the castle. (While Professor Deaton may notice her absence, Hagrid – who is in charge of the class while the dear Professor is out with a cold – certainly will not.)

She’s on the fifth floor conversing with a portrait when someone barrels into her.

“Whoa,” she frowns, steadying herself against the wall. “Watch where you’re going.” Her words, however, hold no reproach.

“You shouldn’t stand right around the corner,” comes the matter-of-fact reply. “No one can see you.”

An amused look settles onto Cora’s features as she studies the girl in front of her. She’s only slightly shorter than Cora and is wearing the green and silver typical of a serpent – if Cora had to guess, she’d say the girl was a year or two younger than she was. “Maybe you shouldn’t be running down hallways,” Cora suggests, openly smirking now. “Don’t they teach you anything in Slytherin?”

“Certainly more than they teach _you_ in Gryffindor,” the girl retorts, straightening.

Cora rolls her eyes. “You might want to reconsider your Sorting, if that’s the best insult you can think of.”

The girl only huffs and glances at her watch. “Aren’t you supposed to be in class right now?”

“What are you, a Prefect?”

“No,” the girl responds haughtily, “but I will be.”

“You sound awfully confident about that for—what, a first year?”

“Second year.” The girl adjusts the books in her arms, and sticks her right hand out. “Lydia Martin.”

“Cora Hale,” Cora replies cautiously, ignoring the proffered hand as she squints at the girl.

“ _Oh,_ ” Lydia Martin replies, eyes widening.

Which Cora takes to mean she’s _heard_ of the Hale family – how her mother turns into a wolf every full moon since she was bitten by Fenrir Greyback. The Prophet had run the story many years ago, before Cora had started Hogwarts – but it was widely-publicised at the time, and anyone in the magical community would be familiar with the story.

But then Lydia Martin schools her surprised expression into a something that can only be described as politely neutral. “I hear you’re the one responsible for the Dungbomb Incident at the end of last year.”

Cora grins immediately.

At least she doesn’t have to hex anyone to hell and back today.

“Why, Miss Martin, I thought you knew: a witch never reveals her secrets.”

Especially not to Prefects-in-the-making.

 

 

*

It’s a bit _too_ chilly to be comfortable on this snowy December day. The air bites at her exposed skin and she can feel the cold settle in her bones with every step she takes. She would comment on the chill, but she’s never been one to show any weakness, especially not around Slytherins, and she’s definitely not about to start now – so she pulls her cloak in a little tighter and trudges on.

“Ten sickles,” Jackson starts, his breath visible in warm puffs, “if you touch the Whomping Willow.” He inclines his head towards the tree in question, and Cora wants nothing more to wipe that smarmy smirk off his face.

“Make it thirty, and you have a deal.”

They shake on it.

Next to Jackson, Lydia sighs.

Cora turns towards her, eyebrows raised in challenge, but suddenly finds herself trying not to notice the pink in Lydia’s cheeks and the snowflakes that catch on her eyelashes.

“Having second doubts, Hale?” Jackson grins.

“You’d better have that thirty ready, Whittemore,” Cora responds flippantly, making her way through the snow, and it’s only when she’s standing in front of the Willow that she realizes she doesn’t have a plan. She stands there for a moment, ignoring Jackson’s taunts from behind her.

She takes a deep breath and steps closer. The tree seems to shift, and after a moment of – well – silence, Cora takes another step. And then another, and yet another. Now, the tree literally _groans_ , and she can see the powder falling off its branches as it moves. A moment later and she finds herself running, because one of numerous branches is whipping its way towards her and she hears it first: a sickening _crack_ , and then she’s on her back in the snow, much farther away from the Willow than she remembered being two seconds ago.

Distantly, she hears a whoop of laughter and rolls her eyes.

Whatever she’s feeling at the moment quickly turns to discomfort and then an incredibly sharp pain – so acute that she almost faints with the force of it – as she tries to stand by pushing herself up on her arms. She’s embarrassed by the yelp that escapes her at the action, but not as embarrassed as she is when she realizes that Lydia is already beside her, hovering with unusual concern etched across her features.

“Cora,” is what Lydia says, kneeling next to her in the snow.

Though she can’t see Jackson, she can feel his presence somewhere behind her. Probably much, much further behind – he’s always been squeamish about accidents, which Cora personally finds hilarious considering he’s a Chaser for Slytherin.

“I think I broke my arm,” Cora mutters, trying to stay focused and desperately wishing she had just left her arms out of the picture.

“Serves you right,” Lydia responds sternly, very much reminding Cora of the Lydia of the past, before she mellowed out (though admittedly not by much): all confidence and nose in the air and _I-told-you-so_. “You know better than to go near the Whomping Willow.”

“She’s not bleeding, is she?” Jackson calls out to the both of them.

“Take this up with your boyfriend,” Cora pouts, paying no mind to Jackson. She may even have found this whole situation amusing if her arm wasn’t aching like mad. She breathes in and then out through her teeth, and she imagines the pain ebbing away. “He dared me.”

“And _of course_ you, in all your fifth-year wisdom, couldn’t say no.”

Cora shrugs but that only leads to another yelp of pain as her arm protests the movement. She allows Lydia to help her up from the snow, watching helplessly as the other girl brushes the powder off her thick robes. “At least I’m getting thirty sickles out of this.”

“And a broken arm,” Lydia points out with a disapproving tone.

“You’re not getting thirty sickles,” Jackson frowns as he gives her the once-over, as though checking for any telltale signs of red on her robes.

“I touched that stupid tree!” Cora protests as they start heading back to the castle.

“I think the tree touched you,” Jackson corrects.

“And by that logic, I touched it as well.”

“The depths of Gryffindor stupidity never fail to surprise me,” Lydia remarks.

Cora ignores her and directs a glare at Jackson. “Would I have broken my arm if I hadn’t touched the Willow?”

“You don’t even know if it’s—”

“That’s enough,” Lydia interrupts, putting a hand between Cora and Jackson as they arrive at the entrance hall.

Cora allows the comforting warmth of the indoors to wash over her, though now that she doesn’t have the endless feet of snow and bitter cold to distract her, the dull throb in her arm only seems to intensify. She tries to hide a wince as she gingerly presses gloved fingers near the injury, but knows she’s unsuccessful when Lydia glances at her sharply.

“You’re still not getting thirty sickles,” Jackson states.

Cora opens her mouth to argue, because for Merlin’s sake, her arm _hurts_ , and as far as she’s concerned, she completely deserves that prize money. But Lydia’s now-gloveless and very cold hand is in hers, and she’s so surprised that her train of thought is derailed and she can only gape at the younger girl.

“You two can settle this later,” Lydia says, seemingly oblivious to Cora’s internal horror at someone holding her hand like they would a little child’s, or even– even– the second option is far too horrifying for Cora to even consider. “Right now, let’s get you to Madam Pomfrey.”

Cora allows herself to be led away by the hand, alternately switching her wide-eyed gaze from Lydia to Jackson, the latter of whom only sniggers and raises a hand in farewell.

_Prat._

 

 

*

Cora remembers her first day at Hogwarts.

The excitement that thrums through her on the rickety boat ride over, the castle looming bright over her and her fellow first-years as they approach. Cora tunes out the excited chatter of her future classmates, gripping onto the ledge of one side of the boat and peering into the inky black waters below.

“Do you think it’s true?”

Cora glances up to see a girl with dark hair and bright eyes looking at her curiously.

“What’s true?”

“That there’s a Giant Squid in the lake,” the girl clarifies.

“Probably,” Cora answers, and she’s ninety-nine percent certain it’s true. Laura and Derek both told her about the Squid – how it liked to eat students that strayed too close to the water’s edge. They were probably lying about the last part, but Cora couldn’t be certain about that.

Just to be safe, she places her hands safely by her side for the rest of the trip to the castle.

Everything about the castle, she notes when she’s finally inside, is excessively large. From the doors to the suits of armour – everything towers over her small frame. The torches flicker intermittently, casting strange shadows across the hallway, and she thinks she hears a cackling somewhere, but before she gets to think much about it, she’s ushered along with the other first years into an even bigger hall by Professor McGonagall.

Her jaw immediately drops when she catches sight of the ceiling. The Great Hall seems to blend into the night sky, dark and littered with stars. She’s jostled along between two endlessly long tables – between what she thinks is Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff – and this is confirmed when she catches sight of her brother grinning at her from the Hufflepuff table.

She waits for a while, watching as student after student is Sorted into different Houses. The girl on the boat – “Argent, Allison!” according to Professor McGonagall – gets sorted into Gryffindor, and there’s a pair of twins that gets sorted into different Houses: one into Hufflepuff, and the other into Slytherin.

By the time the Professor finally calls her name, she’s not sure if she’s more nervous or excited for her turn. She makes her way to the front of the room and perches herself on the edge of the stool, watching as Professor McGonagall lowers the Hat onto her head.

It falls to the bridge of her nose, barely held up by her ears, and she has to push it up to look out into the sea of faces before her.

“Another Hale, I see,” the Hat says, and Cora looks up at its brim, startled. Neither Derek nor Laura had warned her it would _talk to her_.

The Hat chuckles. “A strong streak of loyalty and a hint of bravery.” It trails off, then hums once. “Both important to you as well.”

Any wizard or witch growing up in the magical community knows that these qualities are attributed to the Houses of Hufflepuff and Gryffindor, respectively. Cora wonders if this means she’ll be sorted into Gryffindor, like her sister Laura was. Or perhaps Hufflepuff, like her brother Derek – that seems more likely.

“Perhaps,” the Hat acquiesces, and then falls silent. “Stubborn and foolhardy, too.”

Cora smiles at the words her mother so often uses to describe her.

“Yes, I know just the place for you. GRYFFINDOR it is!”

 

 

*

All in all, Cora has a pretty fantastic day out on the Pitch.

Sure, it’s only a practice match against Hufflepuff – done with the intent of fostering stronger bonds between the two Houses but really only excels in encouraging competition between them – but Cora nevertheless manages to tag both Hufflepuff Beaters out of the game in the first round. By the time the sun has begun to set and practice comes to a close, Cora is feeling rather confident of Gryffindor’s odds in the upcoming games of her last season.

As soon as she exits the locker room, she’s instantly accosted by Lydia, whose idea of a greeting is to smack her repeatedly on the arm.

“Merlin!” Cora exclaims in surprise, trying to (and who would have thought she’d ever say this) fend off Lydia’s hands. “Are you _mental_?”

“Am _I—_ ” Lydia barks out a laugh. “Am _I_ mental? What’s gotten into _you_?”

Cora folds her arms across her chest. At least Lydia’s decided to stop hitting her for now.

“Did you not notice the part where Lahey nearly killed you, or was I watching a different game?”

“Practice game,” Cora corrects automatically, but is sufficiently chastised by Lydia’s answering glare.

“ _Exactly_ ,” Lydia affirms triumphantly.

“And Lahey didn’t nearly kill me,” Cora feels the need to point out. It’s not _really_ a lie – there _may_ have been a moment where Cora lost her balance, and she _may_ have thought that she was going to plummet at least thirty meters to her grisly, untimely demise, but then she _didn’t_ – but Lydia doesn’t have to know any of that, even if it seems like she kind of knows already. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Lydia lets out a heavy sigh, as though _she’s_ the one who has the difficult job sitting in the stands. Cora doesn’t even know why she _came_. It’s just a _practice game_. “I would appreciate it if you _tried_ to _not_ mortally wound yourself at the match against Ravenclaw next week,” the younger girl finally says, bumping her shoulder into Cora’s.

“We can’t have that, can we?” comes Cora’s dry reply.

“I have needs that need to be met,” Lydia says innocently.

Cora laughs, planting a kiss on Lydia’s cheek. “Rest assured, I’ll do my very best to take care of them.”

 

 

*

“Stop staring at Martin,” Allison tells her at breakfast one day, when Cora is looking off into the distance and definitely _not_ at a certain strawberry-blonde Slytherin she had bumped into while skipping class a few weeks ago.

Cora glares at her oldest friend. She has a whole period of Professor Vector to look forward to in exactly half an hour – Merlin only knows why she decided to take Arithmancy as one of her electives; she’s already regretting it – and it’s far too early in the morning for such jovial teasing. “I’m not _staring_.”

“Cora,” Allison says knowingly, and Cora sometimes hates that she has a best friend. “You have the subtlety of one of Hagrid’s Blast-Ended Skrewts.”

Cora rolls her eyes and reaches for a hot cross bun. That, at least, won’t judge her. “How do you know her, anyway? She’s—”

“—a year younger than we are, yes,” Allison continues for her. “And you mean besides the fact that you asked about her last week?” Off of Cora’s pointed gaze, she laughs. Did she mention she hates having a best friend? “She’s also one of Stiles’ friends.”

“Stilinski?” Cora asks, her brows knitting together (because what kind of a nickname is _Stiles,_ really?) as she glances at the second-year boy seated at the Slytherin table.

Allison nods.

“I will never understand how you put up with those Slytherins.”

“Maybe you should join us for a study session one day,” Allison offers, and Cora knows she’s teasing. She also wonders how her friend studies with students a whole year behind her, but she supposes stranger things have happened. Allison’s expression turns wicked as she adds, “I could even introduce you to _Lydia Martin._ _Properly_ introduce you.”

Cora playfully shoves her friend. “Shut up.”

 

 

*

In all her six years at Hogwarts, Cora has never seen the inside of the Prefect’s bathroom.

(She’d tried convincing Allison to take her once, just for a quick peek, but the girl had adamantly refused – something about it being frowned upon, and also “maybe _you_ should have thought of that before causing trouble every chance you get” and basically not being Prefect-worthy, but Cora suspected it had more to do with the fact that she was already meeting Scott there on a regular basis, and decided not to push it.)

“Lucky for you, you’re dating a Prefect,” Lydia murmurs into her collarbone, pushing forward until Cora feels the back of her thighs hit the stone ledge behind her, and she easily shifts into a sitting position, surrounded by foam and bubbles and Lydia standing between her legs.

“Oh?” Cora grins, sly. “Is _that_ what we’re doing?”

Lydia peppers kisses along her jawline, hands threading through Cora’s hair, and when she looks up, her breathing is laboured and she’s clearly distracted. “What?”

“Dating,” Cora supplies, voice low as she leans forward to whisper the word into Lydia’s ear.

She thinks she catches Lydia shiver, but she can’t be sure. “Call it what you want.”

It’s a little disappointing to hear those words said so carelessly, but Cora is nothing if not determined. She surges forward, claiming pink lips with her own with renewed fervor. Her fingers trace mindless patterns against Lydia’s ribcage, and when she pulls the younger girl toward her, the action is strong enough to bruise. It doesn’t take very long before she hears her name in between sighs – _Cora Cora Cora –_ almost like a mantra, and she moves up to kiss Lydia fully, biting down a little harder than necessary.

It helps.

 

 

*

The air is stuffy and oppressive and heavy with what she can only describe as a sort of bookish smell – the kind of thing that would be a comfort to a Ravenclaw or any other brainy types like that. Certainly not to _her_. The pleasant weather outside is distracting and she imagines being on the Pitch as gazes out into the distance, past the lake and into the mountains beyond.

She jumps when there’s a loud slap on the desk, and she glances briefly at the rolled-up copy of the Daily Prophet in front of her before looking up and meeting stern brown eyes.

“ _Concentrate,_ ” Lydia says in the most exasperated voice Cora has ever heard her use – which is saying something – after sending Madam Pince an apologetic look.

Cora sighs.

Lydia Martin is kind of a genius. Cora discovered this last year, when she finally gave in and accepted one of Allison’s invitations to join the study group. She’d thought studying with students a year behind her would only be a hindrance, but Lydia and Stilinski are smarter than your average fourth years. Lydia so much so that her knowledge in most subjects rivaled a seventh year’s, which is exactly why Cora’s enlisted her help in studying for her O.W.L.s.

Her Arithmancy O.W.L. in particular.

Cora’s still not sure what compelled her to continue the blasted subject after her third year; probably some misplaced sense of determination and refusal to just give up.

She really should have given up.

“Look,” Lydia says, pointing to a number. “Try this calculation.”

Cora follows Lydia’s fingers, trying to focus on her text and not the blood red of her nail polish. (And most certainly not on the feeling of Lydia’s gaze upon her.) She tugs at her shirt collar, frowning as she tries to make sense of the calculation and wondering when it got so warm. “I don’t know what this means,” she says after a few moments, clearing her throat and resisting the urge to look out the window again.

“You’re not _concentrating_ ,” Lydia states, leaning in and chasing away the remainder of whatever concentration Cora has left.

Cora closes her eyes and breathes in, but immediately regrets that action when she catches a whiff of Lydia’s perfume.

It’s infuriating, how effortlessly distracting the other girl can be sometimes (most times).

“I’m _trying_.”

“Try harder.”

This is going to be an _awful_ day.

 

 

*

The first time she gets into trouble for sneaking out after curfew is during her second year.

Professor McGonagall sends her off to bed with a severe look and a deduction of ten points from Gryffindor.

When Derek finds out – which, Merlin only knows _how_ ; Cora hardly speaks to him throughout the week, and half of Gryffindor doesn’t even know it was her who had cost them those points – Cora thinks he’s going to educate her on the folly of her ways. He may not be a Prefect, but he certainly has the right attitude for one, considering his propensity for rule-following and other utterly mundane things of the like.

Right now, her brother has his serious face on, which could mean one of two things: an impending lecture, or… an impending lecture.

Laura had always been much more fun.

But all he says is, “Follow me,” and Cora is more than a little surprised when the rest of her afternoon is spent clambering after her brother through various secret passages and hiding places in the castle.

He leaves her right before dinnertime with a light squeeze to her shoulder and a succinct piece of advice: “Don’t get caught next time.”

 

 

*

Summers are meant for rest, relaxation, and most importantly, fun.

By and large, Cora enjoys her summer breaks. She doesn’t do anything in particular, but she likes having a break from school; she lazes about the house, occasionally helps out with chores and dinner, and spends most of her hours outside flying. She doesn’t really have anyone to practice with – hasn’t since Derek graduated and got his own place – but he visits from time to time, and they always make a point of speeding around faster than is probably wise on their broomsticks and throwing a Quaffle around.

In June before her sixth year, Derek is sent to Australia to study some newly-discovered creature and Cora’s summer holidays take a turn for the positively dull.

Her lifeline comes in the form of exchanged letters with her best friend. And when she gets a message from Allison one dreadfully boring day to meet up in Diagon Alley – _Lydia’s birthday is approaching,_ she had written – Cora doesn’t think twice before agreeing to it.

So she finds herself standing in front of Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, glancing at her pocketwatch (a gift from her parents not too long ago) while waiting for her dear friend. Who just so happens to be ten minutes late.

“Bit nippy for August, isn’t it?”

Cora whirls around at the familiar voice and glares at Stilinski, who literally shrinks under the force of her gaze.

“What do you want, Stilinski?”

The boy holds his hands up, as though to show her he means her no harm. “I’m just here to tell you that Allison couldn’t make it.”

“…Okay.”

“Between you and me,” Stilinski starts to lean in, like he’s about to share a secret – but he must catch the look on Cora’s face, because he backs away so quickly that he almost hits his head against the sign hanging above him. (Cora has a thing about people and distance. The rule being: no closer than an arm’s length, and certainly no touching.) “I think she just wants to—” He raises both eyebrows suggestively. “— _meet_ with Scott.”

“She sent you to keep me company, didn’t she?”

“She may have mentioned that,” Stilinski confirms.

“Fine,” Cora sighs, starting off down the street.

“What?”

“I said, ‘Fine.’”

“I know; I heard you,” Stiles responds, a few paces behind her. “And you also said, ‘Okay.’ That’s weird. You never agree to—”

“Do you want a formal invitation, Stilinski?” Cora pauses, waiting for Stiles to catch up with her. “A bouquet of roses?”

“I wouldn’t say no to the roses.”

Cora rolls her eyes. “Since you’re here, you might as well help me pick out her birthday present.”

“Lydia’s?”

“No, Professor Deaton’s birthday present,” Cora says, deadpan, and when Stilinski actually seems to be considering this, she resists the urge to smack him on the head and instead adds, “ _Yes,_ Lydia’s birthday present.”

“Well, I bought Deaton a birthday gift once—”

“Not the point, Stilinski.”

“—I’m pretty sure he thought it was laced with Basilisk venom and _Diffindo-_ ed it—”

“Stilinski!”

“—pity, because I make an excellent batch of rhubarb pasties—”

Cora walks straight into Flourish & Blotts, and only knows that Stilinski is still following by the sound of his voice:

“—would you like to try some?”

 

 

*

In retrospect, she probably should have known that the reason for Allison’s continued presence around those third years could be explained by a _boy_.

Actually, she _did_ consider that possibility.

It turns out, however, that she simply had the wrong boy in mind.

Stilinski isn’t the one who Allison fancies; it’s _Scott McCall._

That much is obvious the very first time Cora joins the motley crew for a study session.

“McCall,” Cora drawls as she approaches the group, greeting each of them. “Stilinski, Martin.” She pauses then, eyeing Allison, who’s seated closer to Scott than is strictly necessary. “ _Allison._ ”

Allison blushes under Cora’s questioning gaze and angles herself away from the boy in question.

“Cora,” Scott says, his smile lighting up his whole face. “Glad you could join us today.”

Huh. Cora can kind of see the appeal. Honest eyes, broad shoulders, floppy hair, and a penchant for helping lost first years – what’s not to like? He’s probably as Gryffindor as Gryffindors could get. The Gryffindor other Gryffindors aspire to be.

“Yes, well,” Cora says, pulling out a chair and sitting between Stilinski and Scott – the strangest pair of best friends she has ever seen, but it’s sometimes comforting to know that friendship can survive and surpass House differences. “I was assured that this would be an _illuminating_ experience.”

“You’ll learn a lot,” Scott replies, an air of eagerness and certainty around him.

“I think I already am,” Cora agrees, watching Allison and wondering if there is a shade of red deeper than that. Out of the corner of her eye, she thinks she catches Martin and Stilinski smirking.

“We’re discussing the Goblin Wars today,” Allison offers, probably in an attempt to get Cora onto a safer topic.

“When are we _not_?”

Scott laughs. “Forget everything Binns said – just listen to Lydia tell it.”

Cora will never admit it to Martin, but she has never had a better History of Magic lesson than she does the day Lydia chronicles the last seven hundred years of Goblin history in two hours.

She passes her next exam with flying colours.

 

 

*

Her final Quidditch match – _ever_ – is disappointing, to say the least.

They win the match against Slytherin in record time (fifty minutes), but she’s not satisfied. She only managed a decent whack or two with her bat before the Snitch was caught and the game was over, and none of those hits were fatal. Not that she made it a point of grievously injuring her rival students, but she would have at least liked to land a good blow on Whittemore. Or—

“Please tell me you’re not sulking because you didn’t knock Aiden off his broom.”

“I would have settled for Whittemore, but yes. You know me so well,” Cora smiles briefly and leans over to kiss Lydia hello on the lips. “What are you doing here?”

“I got bored waiting for you on the bleachers,” Lydia replies nonchalantly.

“So you decided to come here,” Cora finishes for her, quirking a brow. Lydia _hates_ the locker rooms almost as much as she detests Quidditch; in their two years of fooling around, she hasn’t once stepped foot into this place. “What did you say about it? That it was—”

“—smelly, dirty, and absolutely abhorrent.”

“Changed your mind, have you?”

“Not about Quidditch.”

“Of course not,” Cora says, checking her locker one last time before slamming it shut.

“I just don’t see the point of flying around on broomsticks chasing after balls. It’s so _pedestrian_.”

“You realize that, myself included, you’ve dated two Quidditch players?”

“Jackson was on his way to Captain.”

Cora stares at her. “You dated Whittemore because he was going to be _Captain_?”

“It seemed prudent at the time. I thought you knew this.”

Actually, Cora thought that Lydia dated Whittemore because she found something to like in him. But _of course not._ “…I’m not Captain.” Cora doesn’t know why, but it’s suddenly become important to her to hear Lydia’s answer, even if it’s not really a question so much as it is a statement.

“No, you’re not,” Lydia agrees. “But we have mutual interests.”

It takes a moment for Cora to start following her drift – and it only sinks in when Lydia steps into her space, hand nudging under her robes and fingers popping a button on her blouse.

“I guess we do,” she smirks against Lydia’s lips.

It’s probably a good thing that they’re alone in here, because Cora knows Lydia, and Lydia likes to _scream_.

 

 

*

Cora lands her first detention with Professor Blake towards the end of her fourth year.

It’s far from her first detention ever, but it’s almost embarrassing that she managed to end up here – Blake is known for being quite forgiving in terms of late assignments, but Cora has already missed the previous two assignments. So it comes as no surprise to her that Professor Blake gently pulls her aside at the end of class and tells her to show up at precisely four o’clock for her detention.

What does come as a surprise, however, is Lydia Martin.

“How’d you end up in here?” Cora asks once Blake has left them – wandless – to clean the Astronomy classroom.

“Stiles and I had a disagreement in class,” is all Lydia is willing to share, but Cora can read between the lines.

(She guesses full-blown quarrel.)

“And where _is_ Stilinski?”

“He has detention tomorrow.”

They get to work then, Cora gathering the telescopes and astronomical models while Lydia starts to clean them. Clouds are beginning to gather above them, and Cora doesn’t know which would be better: for the impending rain to wait for them to be finished with their task, or for it just to start pouring already and essentially render their detention pointless.

She glances over at Lydia more than once during this time, and always finds the other girl looking out beyond the ramparts.

When they finish, they end up sitting opposite each other on the stone floor, staring up at the darkening sky.

 

 

*

“It’s kind of different from what I expected,” Allison starts, and then clears her throat. “Hogwarts, I mean.”

It’s the early evening, right after dinnertime, and Cora and Allison are the only two in their dormitory.

Cora’s very tired – her first week was packed full of Flying lessons, Charms classes that went awry, and Potions lessons that were made terrifying because of the way Snape seemed to disapprove of things she was doing before she even did them. But Allison has the exact same schedule and has been nothing but kind to Cora the whole week they’ve known each other, and it seems only fair that Cora is kind in return. “Different-better, or different-worse?”

“Better, I guess,” Allison responds. “I don’t know. Snape is kind of—”

“—scary?”

Allison grins. “Yeah.”

They don’t say anything after that; they just flop back onto their beds, and sooner or later, Cora dozes off. But if she had to pinpoint the moment when she and Allison became friends, she would say that this was it.

 

 

*

She bids Lydia goodbye on a warm spring day.

It’s one of her last days at Hogwarts, and she wonders if she’ll ever set foot on the Grounds again. It’s such a beautiful place, and she almost wishes she could go back to being a first year to experience it all again. _Almost_.

She wonders if Allison would agree.

“So,” Lydia is saying, pulling her out of her reverie. “France?”

“It’s just for the summer,” Cora explains, squeezing Lydia’s hand, “and I’ll be back to see you before your first day of classes in September.” When Lydia doesn’t appear to be satisfied by the answer, Cora nudges her. “You could always come visit for a weekend. Or longer. Tour Paris.” She grins. “See what the French Ministry is having me do.”

Lydia smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

This is the first time Cora’s ever felt like she’s needed to assure Lydia of anything in the four years she’s known the girl, and Cora’s not sure the best way to go about it. So she kisses her.

She may be saying goodbye, but it feels more like a _hello again_ and _I’m here for you_ and everything she wants to put into words but doesn’t know how.

It’s filled with the promise of the future, and Cora’s more than okay with that.

 

 

*


End file.
